Page 9 of The Pucking Arrangement

Back in my apartment, I tell myself I’m being professional as I load the footage onto my laptop. Just another night, editing a video. For my channel. For my career.Because once I hit a hundred thousand subscribers, this thing will start making me real money on autopilot.

Absolutelynotan excuse to watch Dmitri Sokolov in high definition for the next few hours.

Except.

My cursor hovers over a clip—him mid-stride, thighs flexing, raw power coiling and releasing with every push across the ice. I hit play. Again. And maybe…one more time.

What the hell is up with those thighs?

Thick. Solid. Designed to drive him forward with unstoppable force.

Forresearch purposes, I let the clip loop, watching the slow bend of his knee, the strength beneath all that padding. If I close my eyes, I canseeit—him sitting back on a bed, legs spread. Me kneeling in front of him, my fingers trailing up the inside of one thick thigh, my mouth following, heat pooling between us as I inch closer, doing myresearch?—

Sweet baby Jesus.

I jolt upright, slamming my laptop shut like it just insulted my grandmother.

Totally normal. Totally professional.

My phone buzzes, yanking me out of my completely professional and not at all unhinged spiral.

[Sophie]: How’s the editing going?

[Jessica]: She’s probably on her fifth rewatch of that goal celly.

[Jenna]: You mean the one where he literally asked her out in front of 20k people?

I groan, but they’re not wrong. Did he ask me out? I’ve watched that clip at least twelve times, studying the way his mouth curved into that panty-melting smirk right before he mimed playing the cello. The way his eyes found mine through the crowd, like he knew exactly where I’d be.

[Me]: I hate all of you. This is not helping my focus.

[Sophie]: No, you don’t. But you might hate me for this...

She sends a link. My finger has declared independence, clicking before my brain can stop it.

The page loads and?—

Oh.

It’s theSports Monthlybody issue from last year.

Dmitri Sokolov.Naked.

Well, strategically covered. But still.

Those shoulders. That chest. The sharp V-cut of his abs disappearing behind what has to be the world’s luckiest hockey stick.

[Me]: I definitely hate you.

[Jenna]: Notice she’s not denying that she’s looking…

[Me]: How am I supposed to not look? Or for that matter, sleep after seeing this?!

[Jessica]: You’re welcome.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, slamming the tab shut.

Open it again.

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